Hallmarks 1997 S PDF
Preview Hallmarks 1997 S
Rings I. I found itinthe keep-sakebox Momgave me when I lefthome. The goldbabyring seems tofill the roomwiththe smell ofmilk, the sound ofmymother singing “Amazing Grace,” and the softness ofthe blanket that I had as ababy. Itis nice to feel that safe again. I try to pushitonto myhand, but I cannotmakeitfit. IL. The ringwas inthe chest. withmy diploma andjuniorpromcorsage. Ithas myhighschool emblemonit. Myinitials are incursive on the back. I think ofputtingonlipstickin the bathroomatfootballgames, ofthe crazy parties, and the cute boys that took up my thoughts. I saved the last turnof myringformy crush, he kissed my cheek. I washed around that spotfor amonth. I wishfor the freedom that I had then. I try to putmyringon, but I cannotmakeitfit. III. Itwas in the shoe box withour marriage license and the house keys. I always wore itwith the diamond ring, itlooks alone withoutit. I turnit over, “Forever” is writtenon the back. Thatwasbefore theyelling. Before the plate shattering and the separate rooms. Itwasbefore the lawyers and “The Blonde.” I thinkofgoing to Lamaze classes alone, ofshowing our child her father inpictures, and ofwaking up at night and findingno one there. I try to slip the band on, but I cannotmake itfit. BRITANY FOSTER (12) ERIN MCANALLY (10) Guardian Angel The brightbeamoflightprojected to the images ofwhatwas once there onto the dustywhite sheetthathungbillowingweaklyfromthe cracked stormwindowin herbasement. The hieroglyphs, ancientrelics, were visions ofherrunning through whatseemed tobe abackyard, butnothing, not even theboywho held herhand so tightlywas knownto her. Evenso, the girlgazed at the livingpastin a determined butvain attempt to grasp the face oftheJohn Doe before her. She tried, struggling for abreathofairin a tormentingocean ofpossibilities, but the five-year-old, dark haired, freckledfaceboywas no piece ofthe puzzle thathadbecome herbeing. Shewas not aware ofthe many times on those hotsummer afternoons whenhe hadpickedher upwith a twinkle inhis eyes after she had fallenfromher imaginary throne andscraped herknee. Nor did sheremember all the FourthofJuly celebrationswhere hehad sharedhis sparklers withher and once had even spelled out “I loveyou” inthe grasswithfireworks. His gentle touch towipe her tears, and his warminglaughter thathad always made herspithermilkout atdinnerwere erasedfromhermemory as iftheyhadnevereveninhabited her soul. He was gone fromher sight andfromhermind...forever. Thefilmstripfinishedrollingits hiddennarrative, and the girlran up the stairs to call theboy thathad takenoverherheart. She wonderedwhat party she would go to thatnight, butforsome reason that was unknown even to her, she could not find the strength to escapefrom thewhirlwind thatwas her thoughts. Perhaps deep inside she longed to lookup fromherchildish antics in the sandbox on those hot summer afternoons, and see himlookingback atherwith that same twinkle inhis eye as he hadsomanytimesbefore. Hastings Beard (10) A Conversation with my Grandmother WhenIwas aplayground-perplexed child With aspirations offinger-painting technicolordreams, I waswhispered awaywith afaithfulsmile... Somild... As mygrandmothersangindecentlullabys ofbrilliantmeans. “Yes, dear, youhaveyourfather’s laughingeyes,” She would singwhile strokingmyhairwith angels’ breath. Then exhaling allpossibilities ofme while the hummingbirds zippedby, She wouldpourintome all herknowledge and innocence kept. Withpink-ribbon theories andviolin-stringfrowns I'dcrawlinto herhibernationoffantasies forsaken Andforme she’d tellstories offorgottenpurple dragons safe andsound Uponhopscotch-memories thatfromme cannotbe taken. So grandmother, singme to sleep While the insomniac dew uponthe grass heaves. Singmeto sleepwith the restlessness ofthe tempest-leaves Singme to sleep withcloudbursts and stormcloudsrollingby Grandmother, letme loveyou andbelieve inyourlullabys. Lisa Binkley (11) REAGANBAYDOUN (12) Adolescent Butterfly “Once again I have left a woman to her empty bed.” Not so empty, beloved — Your memory lies with me all night in my dreams. Again I can sleep with my head on your soft chest And feel, as before, your arms gentle around my shoulders - [ sleep, cradled; I am enveloped by your remembered warmth. Do not stay long away; though I may rest without you, I burn and ache For more than your dream - heart lying tender at my back. Elizabeth McClellan (11) Father where wereyou when the roofleaked? water seeped inside. drops ofyour absence puddled on the floorboards. butyou wouldn'tlend us an umbrella. we knowwhatyou meant, we can hearyou saying: “well, life’s notfair,is it” inyour straineddefensive voice. a sponge devoured the deceit. we breatheyou in this house—alingering scent ofsecret mold, hiddenrot, the wickedperfume ofdecay. ipunished the floorbeneath the cracks, scrubbingblisters intomypalms. iwanted to smoke, to fill my lungs withmephitic cancer. i set out to catchcolds, itwas an artofpersonal infection. icouldforceyoubackhere, shoveyournose to the warpedwood andwatch you choke inyour tainted, fetid air. butiwillwait, openingwindows to cleanse us, purify, tillyounotice i'mnotyour “little flower” anymore. so, father, why aren’tyou reading this? oh, “iunderstand”, you were playingwithyourroommate again. youwere leaving the phone offthe hook. you were screeningmy calls onyour answeringmachine, waitingforme to hang up, to go away, to drainfromyour thoughts. blood has its ownsweetmusk. bloodmakes you mine whetheryouwantme or not. DevonWilliamson (11) Omnipotence When I sawherlaughingwithherfriends outon the ripe grass afterlunch one day, I could sense herpain. Itwas there all along as she tossed herhead in response towhat theysaid. Itwas there inhereyes. Iwanted to stop and tellher that I loved herdearly, butI didn’t and insteadjustkept onwalking. Thatnight when the moonrose itswearyhead I could almost see the tears fleeingfromthe prisons thatwere hereyes and escapingonly tobe apprehendedby the trembling fingers thatbelonged toher. She was gazingatthe moon,as I was, andwondering outloudwhyits eyes glared ather so. She was unconscioustoit, butI couldhear hermotherwhisperingofthe peace thatwasfallingrightoutfromunderneaththeir feet, and at the same time I couldn’t see the smallface thatwas stainedfrom the redness ofwantingwhat clearlycouldnotbe given to her. I wanted to pickup the | phone anddial hernumberjust so the ringwouldput an abruptend to hergrieving, but I couldn’t and instead I laidon the floorstaringat thebarewall above me. As she slept thatnight, I couldfeel the lumpsinthe pillow thatshe held so desperately close to herhopingwith allofherstrength thatifshe squeezedithard enough perhaps she would wake from hernever endingnightmare andmaybe, justmaybe, she wouldfind herfather’s car in the garage again and knowfor the first time in a long time thatherlife was comingback into hergrasp. I knew itwouldn'thappen, and Iwanted to tell herbutdeep downI knew that she knew. I knew ofall these things andwanted to be there forher, but some mightyforce ofgravityor somethinghad always held me backwithits piercingclaws ofdenial. Todayis anew day, and the sunis sheddingits skinoflight down upon the glowinghead thatis hers. She is standing andlaughing againwithherfriends, but this time I stop to tell herofthe nightmyfather left. Hastings Beard (10) K.C. Burt (11) A Haiku Whimsical Pleasures Tousles her angelic hair Sadness brings sweetpeace. Susan Clark (10) Thewar This picture is for Daddy. Not the paper doll Daddy who proudly gazes out from the pictures in a navy uniformmore stiffly starched than the plane of photographer’s paper that entraps him, but the true Daddy. She puts stout crayon to paper to make real the daddy she sometimes dreams about, the one she used to know, who smelled like soap and ocean salt and whose lap had all the rightniches for herblonde head’s sunset. A memory thatflies like a dove around her unclouded four-year-old head lights on hermind, and she remembers the manwho lifted her high into the clouds until she herselfhad bird’s wings and swooped down to nest in his arms again. Daddy has herwings, now, though. He used them to fly offthe place call Thewar, so his little girl with ice-white bows tamingbraids offlaxenyellow unmatched by any color in herbox ofcrayons calls upon heryouthful lip-licking, brow-knitting powers of concentration to draw a map oflove thatwill surelybring him home. Home would neverbe the same though, because Thewar was notjust in one place. It seeped unheeded by immigration through the borders and into the population, like a chestnutblight on history. “Never forget!” came the cry ofthe victims, but those who live after cannever forget. The earthquake of animositywhich shook the world along religious and cultural fault lines toppled the tower oftradition that loomed over the early twentieth century. Women began to work outside the home, first in the U.S.O. and the hospitals, and then in the factories and shops and businesses. They kept the nation running, and found that they could run the nation. Ifonly they could have recharted our course when they marked their takeover in the historybooks, they could have blotted out the hate that to this day lies just below the surface, like flotsam from a shipwreck, waiting for time and stormy seas to bring it to the surface before itbegan. Yet, that grimace oftribulation, which brands those who fought the war, like a concentration camp number never completely disappeared. It was handed down like Hitler’s treasured blue eyes and blonde hair to the little girl who would one day trade her pristine dress for a uniform like her father’s. Her mama had once explained that geese fly south for the winter, but return home in spring. She wished her Daddywas one ofthose birds. Molly Arvin (9) A Chocolate Covered Coffee Bean Staring at my smoking cup ofJava I looked at the cream and sugar concotion that had solidified on the side ofmy cup, Thinking “My coffee doesn’ttaste like it usually does.” Frustrated, upon the verge ofnon-drinking, [ set the cup aside Knowingit wasn’t the coffee’s fault, [ wasjust having a bad day. [ tried to take in the conversation around me. With ahodgepodge ofsentence stew I swirled the ingredients together Laughing at the final ding-ding ofthe oven That represented my brain. I watched as older couples sipped their coffee With theiryellow coffee-stained dentures, And their “no cream and no sugar” attitude. I wondered ifI wouldbe like them, Wantinglife to be simple, Wastingwishes in a coffee pot Waitingfor theircup tobe filledwithlukewarmJava, Just so itwouldn'tbe empty. I then looked at the college and “wanna-be” college crowd As they sip theircappuccinos with extra froth and their de-caflattes, Which to me totally loses the importance ofa coffee rush. They abandon their cup on the table, Destroying the sugarsnow-flakes that took so long to develop theirindividuality. Leaving three-fourths ofthe cup as they leave, Theymight as wellhave sipped itwith a straw, Ormerely used it as afan ofpeacockfeathers So theycould personally display their sheep-bells Lettingnon-freedomring. Thinking aboutgettingbackmycoffee, I was suddenlyinterruptedby afriend. With herhand out, She offeredme some chocolate covered coffee beans That she snapped out ofthejaws ofthe machine inside. Thinking I had found anew hidden treasure I put one inmymouth Hoping to savorlife. But then I thought about the old people that I had seen. They’d be laughing atme Wonderingifthe generationgap had eruptedwithout themknowingit. And the college crowd,sitting on anearthquake, Would laughwithme... Cheeringme on. Notwanting the best ofbothworlds, I swallowed, hoping that thisbeanwasn’t one fromJack and the Beanstalk. She then asked meifIwanted another one. “No thanks,” I said. “I'lljuststick to mycup ofcoffee.” Lisa Binkley (11) Cold Summeris fading. * She cantellby the chillin the air. - She'dreluctantlyspent the warmmonthswithhim. Nowhe helps herzip up herbags, so she cango. She wants him tohear whatshe isn’t saying. Maybe thatwouldget to him when everythingelse didn’t, buthe didn’tgetit at all. She thoughthe had aheart thatmight understand, but he’dlost thatlongbefore she was ever around. Shouldshe have heldback? Because she couldn't, not after this long. He'd alreadymade his excuses, but they all said, “I'm abandoning you.” Herfatherisn’t suppose to say that, still she takes the responsibility, his alongwithhers. She walks away the coldwind blowingback KATWARD (12) the hottearsfallingfromherface to hithis back walking awayfromhers. She hadjustfallen fromhis grasp like the early autumnleaves crunchingbeneathhis feet, andhe didn’t care. *Line from Phillip Larkin’s poem RachelAllen (12) Hope Aparagonofbeauty. Aglimpse ofperfectlove. Aflowerin the garden ofthe shiningsky above. The absence ofallhatred, The presence ofallgood. An abudance ofthe positive. Not should orwould, but could. Maria Gumina (10) RACHELALLEN (12) eight and eight brotherfainted often.fellinto puddles ofbody’s salted water, and stopped. everythingceasedwithbrother. sisterremembers the times he’d quietlysit andmost unexpectedly crawl inside to his ceasingplace. he'dgrip his leftbreast. sisterwould grip his grip and the beatingwould transferover to hergrip. the grippingmoments were the closest moments. grippinghappened more often thennotwhile sitting, relaxing, playing nothinggames with fingers and toes andnipples and elbows. reasonfor sudden breathloss and faintingwerentexposed to eitherofthem. the stillestofmoments becamestillerevenby those damned indecisive moments ofpausing. brother's life pausedfor second, that lasted forloner thanjutseconds, about every twomonths. “deargod!” he has this hole inhis heart. and somanyveins hangformthe thickmuscle andjust retire into the crannies ofhis insides.sisterpatched up the existence ofthe hole inhermind, she didn’t understand why the hole tookher brother away. butbrotherwas thick and stronglike father. he was downtownforweek, takinglonger thanhadbeen expected. itwas eight and eightfor those weeks. eighthours inoperation and eight hours out, for | resting time. and during the eight and eight time sistercouldn’t see himor touch him. she wanted his touch, his grasp. all ofthose veins were drivingblood into placeswhere blood shouldnt exist, where blood shouldn'tlive. allofthose veins pumped terrorinto sister. anotheryearofceasing and handgrippings andbrother’s life would havebleached away. fearwas shovedinto sister’s mouth. shewas forced to tryit on, to taste it. she was forced to swallowitdown. Tallu Schuyler (11)
The list of books you might like
